The storm blew itself out as quickly as it had come. Fulk was found lying unconscious next to the hatch with his right hand clenched round a piece of tarpaulin.
* * * *
Odo was gone, lost overboard during the storm and presumed drowned. Excited by the prospect of witnessing a storm, he had ignored Captain Dephix's order for all non-seamen to get below, and stayed on deck.
That was the captain's version of events, and Fulk couldn't disagree with it. He had seen a knight washed overboard in his waking dream outside the Iron Gate, and now knew that he must have been witnessing Odo's last moments.
Drowning was not a death Fulk would have wished on his worst enemy, and certainly not his friend. Since the morning after the storm he had been miserably sea-sick, and had had plenty of time to reflect on Odo's death as he lay in his cot in the sick bay, feeble as a kitten and with barely enough strength to reach for the sick bucket.
If only I had known. This thought revolved over and over in his mind, until he feared he would go mad with the repetition of it. Why was the identity of the dying knight not revealed in my dream?
Fulk wasn't the only one laid up sick. Many had been injured as the ship was tossed about during the storm, and fever had broken out. Worried that it might spread to his crew, Captain Dephix had ordered those affected to be placed under quarantine in the sick bay. There the ship's surgeons, wearing scarves soaked in urine around their faces against the spread of infection, treated their patients with lime juice, watered rum and regular bleedings.
* * * *
The Grand Master didn't object to the treatment of his knights, but remained confined to his cabin, poring over old manuscripts and drinking heavily. Comrade Malet was the only one of the Lesser Masters fit enough to stand up to the captain, but he appreciated that the old sailor knew his business and let him do it.
Captain Dephix had enough to do without worrying about the Templars. Though it had blown itself out quickly, the storm had scattered the fleet and turned the Heloise into a floating wreck. Nine of the crew were lost, washed overboard like Odo or killed by falling spars, and Dephix put the remainder to work in patching up the ship.
The scattered heaps of timber, rigging and canvas were salvaged or, if irreparable, heaved overboard, along with the blackened lump that was all that remained of the ship's third mast, struck by lightning at the height of the storm. Some of the fitter knights volunteered to help in clearing up the mess, and immediately made themselves useful by tripping over ropes, misunderstanding orders and generally getting in the way.
Ominously, there was no sign of the rest of the fleet. There was little wind, and for an entire day the Heloise was virtually becalmed. Comrade Malet stood and brooded at his usual place on the quarterdeck, not caring to soil his hands or irritate the crew by helping to repair the ship.
He kept looking south, towards the Old Kingdom. There was no sign of land yet, and Captain Dephix assured him there would be none for another three days or so.
"Assuming the old girl lasts that long," the old man had growled, referring to the ship. "She may yet break up beneath us. The storm did her no good, no good at all."
Malet paid little attention to the captain's pessimism. He was idly daydreaming of the bloodbaths to come when a cry floated down from the crow's nest. Ship sighted, half a mile east of starboard!
By nightfall eighty ships had been sighted. Stirring himself from his cabin, Grand Master Sibrand ordered a message to be flown from the mainmast of the Heloise ordering the captains of the Templar vessels to report to him in person the next morning.
Twenty-five ships had been given over to the Templars, but only twenty-four captains came to make their report. All these men were exhausted, some injured and barely able to stand, but Sibrand insisted on making every one stand before his desk and describe the condition of their ships and crews. The old knight nodded curtly and made notes as they described the fearful damage wreaked by the storm, while Comrade Malet stood silent beside his chair.
"Thank the gods, it's a miracle so many of our ships survived," was Malet's only remark, made after the last captain, pale from lack of sleep and with one arm in a sling, had been dismissed and allowed to stagger out.
Sibrand signed off the last entry in his ledger and rounded on Malet. "And what of the remaining ship, the Blade? She had two hundred knights and squires on board. Where is her captain?"
Malet shrugged. "Perhaps she went down. Other ships in the fleet have not yet been sighted. It's unrealistic to expect no casualties after a storm like that."
"I don't give a damn about the other ships. The people aboard the Blade were ours, knights and servants of the Temple. I will not give them up so easily. Give orders for my signal to be flown until further notice."
Malet did so, and an ominous silence fell over the Templar ships as they waited for news of their missing comrades. By noon seven more non-Templar ships had limped into view, leaking and storm-battered, and row boats were quickly dispatched to tow them into line.
Still the fleet waited, but no more survivors appeared. By late afternoon bells were tolling on the non-Templar vessels, mourning the passing of those drowned at sea. Sibrand refused to give up the wait, snarling venom at Malet and the other Masters when they tried to remonstrate, and the fleet was forced to remain at anchor for another night and the following morning.
At noon of the following day Sibrand cracked. "Oh gods," he groaned suddenly, burying his white head in his hands, "two hundred of our people, all gone."
The pointless vigil was lifted, and a new signal rose ordering the battered fleet to make sail.
And so the Twelfth Reconquest survived its first trial.
4.
Naiyar woke at dawn. He had slept all afternoon the previous day and all through the night. It took him a few moments to remember where he was, and eventually all the events of the previous day came flooding back to him.
Everything had changed. He had become a curious, ambitious young man, eager to find the answers to all of life's riddles, to quench the thirst for knowledge that stirred in him the moment he set eyes on the horizon.
His muscles ached from his flight through the jungle and the night spent fighting to stay alive in a raging torrent. He was famished. He stood and stretched, and waded quietly into the river to find breakfast.
He tickled a couple of medium-sized fish, brought them to shore, made a fire, cooked and ate them. Then he stood again, full of purpose, although what purpose he had no idea. He looked back east, the way he had come, shielding his eyes from the sun, which was higher in the sky now.
Can't go that way. Can't ever go back that way again.
He suddenly remembered Evva, asking him to look out for her. Her bright, innocent eyes believing him when he said he would. He remembered Salla, fussing over him, talking about everything and nothing. How it had irritated him before. How he missed it now. He knew he would never hear that rambling voice again.
He remembered Lokee.
A thousand things went through his mind, things that he would liked to have said to each of them before he left. But everything had changed so much, so quickly.
He put the thought out of his mind and turned to the west. The river stretched out before him, a great worm wriggling its way to the horizon and further, beyond sight.
He looked North. Plains. Grass. As far as his eyes could see.
He looked South. Everything looked the same. Miles upon miles of grass. In a wilderness like that he knew he would be a fool to leave the river. So that left Naiyar with only one choice. West.
He started walking.
* * * *
"What are we going to do? What if they don't find him?" Salla had been talking for some time and Lokee was tired of her questions. "He'll die alone or become a wraith, a tormented ghoul, a monster! Our home will wither and die, our food will disappear, and the world will dry up! No more rain! We shall waste away, our world a parched desert! How did he escape? No Chosen Son has ever
escaped before. Oh my boy, my poor boy—"
"He is not a god, Salla." Lokee heard his own voice but couldn't believe he had just uttered those words. He had been thinking them since the day Naiyar was "chosen" but he did not believe he would ever say them out loud.
Now that he had said them, he was quite sure they were true.
"What do you mean? Why did you say that? Of course he is a god, he was chosen by the shamans!"
"They did not choose him, Salla. The shamans saw no gods on the temple that day."
"Nonsense. What did they see then?"
"Something...else. I don't know." Lokee had his head in his hands. He was rubbing his forehead, trying to think. "I don't know what he is."
"Is this some sort of joke? You know I don't like your jokes. What a time to be joking, our boy is out there alone, in the wilderness. I just don't know how he escaped. Those foolish boys, how could they let him go?"
"I gave him a little something to help him on his way." Lokee couldn't help grinning when he said it.
"Well, obviously, that is what you were meant to do. Tunka, to help him into the spirit world. Honestly, Lokee, I'm not stupid, I know that."
"No," Lokee's grin grew wider, "not tunka."
"What then? What have you done? You've got that look on your face again, the one you have when you've done something...wrong."
"I gave him flight-bark," Lokee's eyes sparkled in the candle-light as he turned to face Salla head on.
"What? By the gods! Why would you do such a thing?"
"He is not a god. I am sure of it. The shamans were not worshipping a god, they were cowering in fear. In terror!" Lokee became more animated the more he expressed his own suspicions. "He hears them, you know! Oh yes!"
"Hears who? You're frightening me. Sit down, please!"
Lokee was pacing the room now. He had been thinking about it for a day and a night. It had been at the back of his mind, lurking in the shadows, so he hadn't been able to look at it. He had had to keep his lips sealed—but now it was as though talking about it had made it step out in the open and reveal itself.
"I hear them myself, but only faintly. He hears them loud and clear. And they seek him, Salla! They talk to him and him alone! They guide him. They tell him what is going to happen before it happens! They helped him escape. I knew they would. There's no way he could have done it alone. I helped him with a bit of flight-bark to give him stamina, speed, agility. To give him courage. They showed him which way to run!"
"They?" Salla was looking scared now, her eyes darting around the hut. She whispered, under her breath, "Who are they?"
"The dead." Lokee stared at her.
Outside the hut, a figure hid in the shadows and listened to Lokee and Salla's conversation. As they stared at each other in silence, Grizzal slunk away.
* * * *
Naiyar had been walking west along the river for three days, and he had noticed the landscape on either side growing dryer and dustier. The river was still wide though, and where he walked, close to the banks, were trees and shrubs and a narrow strip of grass.
He had seldom heard the voices since he had waded from the river. They only seemed to come to him when he was in danger, when there was something they deemed important enough to tell him or when he needed a nudge in the right direction. They had warned him of crocodiles while he was drinking, told him of good places to catch fish, and when and where to sleep. Since they were quiet now, he assumed he must be heading the right way.
West.
What lay in his path he had no idea, and the voices were not forthcoming. He was becoming accustomed to letting fate lead him. It reminded him of being in the river, and he thought life was like a longer version of his night in the relentless current. You jump in, you get tugged along and battered about, and the only way you can survive is to ride it and learn that you can never dictate its direction.
He hadn't realised how long he had been walking along the bank, deep in thought, but when he looked up, it was dusk. The sun was setting far ahead of him in a purple sky, flecked with the silhouettes of a few wispy clouds.
The voices had not warned him that it was time to find a place to camp for the night. Every night since he had dragged himself from the river's cool embrace, they had told him the sun would soon set and he must leave the open river bank, as it was not safe at night. But this evening they were long overdue.
Then he noticed lights in the distance. Surely there were no people out here in the wilderness?
He walked toward the tiny yellow specks, further along the river. His curiosity urged him on and he was running by the time he could make out the squat black shapes of buildings. The yellow specks became squares of light, pouring from windows. He had come to a small settlement.
It wasn't a settlement anything like Naiyar had seen before. The buildings were made of lumps of stone. He had only seen one stone building in his life—the temple, back in the village. There, each stone was as big as one of these buildings. The stones made up the sides of the building but, unlike the temple, they were not uniform. Each stone was a different shape and size and the gaps between them appeared to be stuffed with mud. The roofs were even stranger to him, they looked like an eagle's nest, but spread flat and sloping upward. At one end of the great nest, smoke billowed up from a squat vertical spout.
He stopped a few strides away from the nearest building and scratched his head.
Inside he could hear people singing and laughing. He could hear music too, but not like any he had heard before. It was softer, more melodic, more cheerful than the heavy rhythms the Djanki beat on their drums. Eventually his curiosity urged him on again and he walked around the side of the building, where the sound of the people grew louder.
There was a large sign sticking out above a heavy wooden door. He could just about make out unfamiliar letters in the gloom, and below the letters was a crude painting of a strange antelope with some great burden on its back.
As he glanced down at the window, the bright yellow glow dazzled him. Then slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the light and he could see a large room filled with people drinking and laughing together. They reminded him of the elders.
Finally, unable to resist, Naiyar mustered up the courage to step forward and walk through the door.
The heat inside the room hit him like a gust of wind. All around him people sat at tables drinking from large mugs. Unlike Naiyar, everyone seemed to be dressed in skins which covered their torsos, their arms and legs, even their feet.
Over to his right, two men—one about his age, the other much older with a grey beard and a big round belly—played the strange music he had heard from outside. The young one had a familiar looking instrument. He had seen some of the elders play similar things; a flute, it was called. But the older man played something he had never seen. His left hand clutched the end of a strip of wood, which led to a wooden block tucked under his other arm. The thing had strings stretched tight along the length of it and the man picked at them with his stubby fingers, creating a beautiful melody.
He looked towards the other end of the hall, where people sat on high stools in front of a sort of wooden partition, raised almost to the height of his chest and topped with a platform covered with mugs. The partition stretched across the far end of the room.
To his left, opposite the musicians, was a great fire set back in the wall. He had never seen a fire inside a hut before. No wonder it was so hot.
As his gaze swept back toward the far end of the room it fell upon a young woman, standing by a table, holding a stack of empty mugs, looking back at him.
She had long golden hair and deep piercing eyes undimmed by the haze of pipe smoke in the air. The firelight shone on her smooth, unblemished skin. Without thinking, Naiyar strode towards her, his heart fluttering like a butterfly snared in a spider's web.
As he came closer she picked up another mug, turned, and disappeared behind the bar. At the table where she had stood, he noticed a man, sitting alone
and grinning at him.
The man was huge, with a mess of dark hair which reminded Naiyar of the thatch on the roof. Though he was clearly a white man, such as the legendary men from the North, he had a broad, sun-darkened face. His eyes were large and brown, full of humour and welcome, with crow's feet etched into the corners by his permanent smile.
"You're not from around here, are you, boy?" he beamed up at Naiyar, gesturing for him to sit.
Naiyar sat down.
"Where have you come from then? I haven't seen your type around here, I'm sure, and I've seen most types."
"East," Naiyar hooked a thumb over his shoulder, "up the river."
"The plains?"
"Beyond the plains."
"Long way to travel alone, boy. Still, you're here aren't you?" He held out his hand, smiling again. "Jarrod."
Naiyar looked down at his hand, confused.
White men shake hands when they greet each other. Shake his hand.
The voices again. Naiyar was relieved they were back, for he quickly got confused when they weren't furnishing him with useful bits of information. He shrugged, grabbed Jarrod's rock of a hand and shook it vigorously. "Naiyar," he said with a satisfied smile.
Jarrod laughed. "You really have travelled a long way, haven't you, Naiyar?"
At that moment the girl suddenly appeared at Naiyar's side and thumped two mugs of ale on the table, sending a splash over the rim of each. He glanced up and saw her smiling down at him. He felt like her eyes were seeing deep into his soul. His heart pounded and he felt drunk as he stared back. She held his gaze for a second, which seemed to him an eternity, but still not long enough. Then she turned and went back to the bar as men bellowed for more ale.
"Looks like you've made a friend already, eh?" Jarrod drained his mug, grabbed the fresh one and raised it to Naiyar. "Welcome to the Donkey's Back!"
Naiyar picked up the other mug, held it in the air and they both took a deep draft. Naiyar nearly choked, spraying ale all over the table. Jarrod swallowed half his mouthful and dribbled the other half into his beard as he pounded his fist on the table and gurgled with convulsive laughter.
The Best Weapon Page 9
